Our Only Option
by Punkigoff
Summary: Our troubled heroine wishes herself an escape - and wakes up in Port Royal.
1. Falling

The shadows shifted and bent, closing in on themselves and deepening where they were disturbed.  Passing from one to the next, ever closer, the shifting dark found edges on the form and lost them again.  The enameled bars bled heat from the skin through a cocoon of blankets.  Try to disappear.  Sink into the mattress, down through the floor, get away, any way, just disappear.  Pull the covers tighter, tug of war, constrict, pull away, sink down, immovable.  Fiber sliding through fingers, wrapped around wrists, tightens, slides, burns.  Cold bleeds through, the outer defenses are falling.  Hold ground.  Cold is everywhere.  Losing.

"No!"

The mumbling sighs of sleep burst into a shout, and in the whipcord release she jolts up, flailing, and collides with a burst of pain in the dark.  She falls back whimpering, and curls in on herself, holding her head.  Her shoulder under her aches, and she wiggles her toes against the numbness in her leg on the same side.  Her hips are bent awkwardly, caught in the folds of the down comforter.  Nylon curls jab into her cheek – carpet.  She reaches for the sheet below, remembering to stay low to avoid – what was it? The desk.  She remembers the maple veneer overhangs the base about a hand-span.  Fumbling in the dark she chases down the pillow, slamming her knuckles more than once into the iron bed frame.  She tries not to think about what other things might be lurking about down here, and tries to sort out the twisted wreckage of the comforter and duvet.  She can't remember why she's on the floor, what started the argument.  The bulk of him looms against the questionably white wall, the glare of halogen from outside cutting across his thighs.  The oscillating fan is off now, and from where she crouches among the clutter she studies him, skin turned to marble in the cold light.  Almost like dead, until the low snore starts again.  Once asleep she never notices it, but in the cold emptiness of being wide awake it grates on her nerves, makes her angry.

"Why am I even here?"

The fight was small, stupid.  They always are.  They get along fine until she wants something he doesn't feel up to.  It was two days since he'd agreed to watch the movie.  A little thing, a together thing, restful and relaxing.  Maybe that was how it started, and maybe she wasn't giving enough to have a place to ask anyway.  Was that why she was on the floor?  He'd complained of heat, didn't want to be close, not earlier, and not on the way to bed.  Like the night before, when she'd come over in her dress.  She couldn't remember the last time she owned a nice dress, she felt good in it.  Tall, even a little elegant, in black with a crimson shawl.  It had been a bargain, and she had needed something to wear to her friend's wedding anyway.  He wouldn't touch her.  She remembered that.  She would always remember that, the frown when he saw her.  Now, huddled on the floor, she thinks of painting him like this, curled around the pillows the way he does when he's cold, hair splayed out in long pieces, dark against dark on the rumpled mattress.  She thinks about water, but remembers he fixed the door handle – he might wake up if she opened the door.  It was easier to take the rejection if she could believe he was oblivious in sleep.  You can't be angry for something someone does in their sleep.

"How are you?"

That suddenly, he was awake, aware.  How long had he been awake, listening to her stare at him from a meter away?  Had he heard her wake from her nightmare, and pretend to sleep, or was it after that he woke?  He turned to face her, eyes shrouded in the shifting darkness.  Trying to focus the overlapping images she concentrated on the sweep of his brows and the full lips she could just barely make out.  The room itself was like a reflection in hammered silver, cells of color shifting one into the other at soft edges, a smoky palate too narrow in value to make anything terribly distinct.

"Do you want to come up here?"

Thick arms opened, stretching into the gray space between them.

"Please come here."

His head sagged onto a supporting shoulder and he waited.  She thought about painting him like that, the black shadow from the wand of the mini blinds falling across his chest, the shallow depth perception helping it masquerade as an arrow shaft, his arms out, legs twisted in the sheet, the ambient light cooling everything like Dionysus surprised by Death.

"Why don't you want to come up here?"

She gathered the comforter closer around her, and his hands dropped the last few inches to the mattress.  Slowly she willed herself forward, clumsy in the massive comforter, tripping on the sheet, the pillow, and the hem of the pants she'd put back on in the cold.  They were twisted, and she thought about fixing them before laying down.  She rested a knee on the edge as he moved to make room for her.  She folded herself to fit in the space, shivering from contact with the December air.

"Why are you curling up?  Please don't.  Open back up."

He pressed against her back, reaching around to put a hand over her knees.  She stretched out a little, careful to keep the edge of the covers folded over her toes.  He sighed, readjusted his weight, and withdrew his hand to her waist.  She stared out into the room, light-blind from having glanced at the Indiglo clock, never mind she couldn't read it.  She tried to will herself past the tension into sleep.

"I can't sleep."

He rolled on to his back, pulling away from her quickly, jolting her out of drowsiness.  The cold seeped in where he had been, stealing heat from her and knotting her muscles tighter than before.  Everything was so cold.

"Come here.  Please."

She turned, and was gathered against him.  Her ear folded over under her, but she didn't dare move.  Blood rushing through her veins pounded at her, beating against the steady deep rumblings of his heart beneath her palm.  She closed her eyes and focused on it, feeling her own come into sync with it.  Maybe in the morning everything would be right again.  She shut everything out but the rhythm and sailed away on the rise and fall of his breath.

*

The flames danced, washing the circle with warm light.  Still dripping from the saltwater bath, she knelt at the low table and took a clay moon in her palm.  Turning it, from the white face to the dark, she thought about last week and the string of arguments and bad feelings.  She asked the dark moon for direction, and reached for the black stoneware bowl.  She held it inverted over the flames until the heat was too much to bear.  She poured water into it slowly, clearing her mind and settling more comfortably.  She was looking for direction, and maybe for hope.  She was looking for what she needed to see.  She was looking for her path.  Staring into the black depths, she cupped the bowl in her hands and sent her energy into it.  Images and thoughts passed by her, through her, around her, swirling as she dove deeper into awareness.  Sinking into it, moving down through the world in her little bowl she released her questions to float with her in the blackness.  Path.  Answer.  Sign.  Hope.  Love.  Pain.  Lost.  Need.

Death.


	2. Naming

She wasn't sure what woke her up, but in the darkness she buried her face in the pillow and tried to ignore whatever it was.  She didn't feel like being awake yet.  Then she heard it – the click of the door handle.  She froze, straining her ears for the slightest noise.  Yes, the hinges sighed in opening and there, that little pressure on the floor, almost imperceptible.  Large feet, hard feet, feet on a mission.  Frozen against the mattress she willed herself to wake up.  It wasn't working.  She calculated this would make the fifth night in a row in nightmare cycles, every one tangible and terrifying.  He was close now, she could sense it, he was standing, staring, and this was her chance, her moment to will resistance. 

Sometimes in these dreams she could win, even though it still felt like losing, blood covered and violent.  She settled a strategy and waited, tense, pretending sleep.  There it was, the slight disturbance of the air, the hand descending, closing the distance, and she waited.  The hand paused, changed direction, and pulled the covers instead.  They slid down her body in a disgusting closeness, and she drew herself in, as though from cold.  He stood, watching, and she could feel his eyes raking over her, and she ground her teeth, waiting for the moment to strike back.  The hands extended, descended, found her form, digging in, pushing, committing strength to leverage.  She struck.  Whirling up and out, she used their combined momentum to throw him and come to her feet. She hit her head on something – she couldn't see in the dark, and she wasn't expecting it.  He struck back, fury in his hands, angry at the challenge to his power.  Over and around, willing herself through the movements, resisting him.  He was strong, grabbing at her, trying to force her down.  Again, she threw him, hearing a tumble and crash of destruction where he landed.  She needed light; she was at a disadvantage.  She moved to the side, keeping her hands extended in the direction she last heard him from, looking for a wall, a light switch.  She collided with something, big, wooden, taller than her but not the wall.  He came at her again, slowly, grunting, almost growling.  He grabbed a wrist and she stepped behind him, throwing him off balance.  Turning, using the weakness of his hand she tried to keep out of his reach, knocking over some small piece of furniture in her path.  She tried to keep herself oriented in the space, but failed, finding the wall in suddenness that gave him an opening.  He took it, striking at her and connecting, bone on flesh, exploding pain.  She dropped, sweeping her arms into the backs of his knees and taking him down.

She needed to wake up.  She tried to jolt herself out of it, shouting.  Nothing was working, and her side was flaming from the blow.  Dreams weren't supposed to hurt this badly.  She noticed a thin line of gray to her right, inching across the floor.  She took a chance, and rolled that direction, coming to her feet quickly, hearing him behind her struggling to get up.  She couldn't see the line anymore, and hoping she was still heading the right direction, she slid forward as quickly as she dared, hands outstretched.  She encountered heavy cotton.  Thrilled, she pulled the drapes, hand over hand, blinding herself, but hearing him recoil behind her as well.  The window was wonderfully large.  Blinking, she saw slats indicating shutters, and fumbled for the latch.  She threw the window fully open to the morning sun, and whirled back to the room, settling into a comfortable half-stance.

He was halfway across the room, standing, but bent, wiping blood from his mouth.  It was him alright, beard and close-cropped hair, like tarnished copper.  He never changed in her mind, always big and wide and freckled, even after college, when she came home and realized he was barely on eye level with her.  The room, though, was odd, not one she'd ever seen before, huge and full of similarly heavy pieces of furniture.  All of the wood was dark, and from what she could see, all with some degree of ornamentation.  The bed was canopied, she noticed, and remembered the sore place on her head.  He spat, and her attention returned to where he was straightening and glaring at her.

"Ill mannered wench."

He turned on his heel, thundering out the door and slamming it in his wake.  She remained by the window, trying to wake up.

"Miss?  Are you alright, Miss?"

Another door opened, and a round face popped through it.  A kind face, framed by auburn curls and lace.  Lace.  The woman was wearing a mob cap.  He had been wearing short trousers and garter socks.  The window was shuttered, but not glazed.  Slowly, she turned in place to look outside.  The window was less of a window than another doorway, onto a narrow balcony.  The sun glanced bright off the buildings winding away from her in close huddles, getting shorter and hiding behind the next in succession down to the harbor.

"Miss, are you alright?  I heard a struggle and I thought you might be wanting me."

A forest of black and brown masts cluttered the water, and a few smaller fishing trawlers winged into port, sails yellow against the blue water.

"Where am I?"

"Miss?"

"Wake up.  Just wake up."

"Miss?  Are you alright?"

With soft rustling the woman approached, and put a hand on her shoulder.  She turned, and took in the woman's dress, cut straight through the bodice and full skirted.  Small bits of lace stood up around the square neckline and beneath the sleeves, cut tight and ending just past the elbow.

"Where am I?"

"Miss?  It'll be alright, just a bit of shock.  Come away from the window, Miss, and we'll dress you."

"What's going on?"

"Miss?  Come on now, away from the window, there we go.  I'll just shutter this one back up and you take a rest now, Miss.  Quite a noise you've made this morning, you'll be wanting to break fast soon, I'd wager.  Well, Cook must have anticipated you, she made a fine one this morning.  You will be wanting to eat this morning, right Miss?  I've been worrying about you, not eating.  'Tisn't  right, I say, you'll do yourself a harm.  Now what will you be wanting to wear today?"

She backed away as the woman went around the room, opening curtains and righting small tables and chairs knocked over in the fight.  She looked at her own clothes, finding lace and thin cotton, billowing to her ankles is soft gathers.  How had she not noticed before?  Everything was wrong, the dress, the room, the town outside, the cadence of the woman's speech - and she couldn't wake up.

"Miss?  Come now, Miss, it will be alright.  Just a little shock, you'll feel better when you've eaten, I wager."

"How often does this happen?"

The woman sobered, her head tilting to one side ever so slightly.

"So Mary was right."

"Mary?"

"You know Mary, she serves the Tamsen's daughter, Ann, next door."

"Oh.  Mary.  What did Mary say?"

"If I may say, Miss, I don't trust that physician.  And Mary and I, we've kept the Laudanum away for a fortnight.  This is the first time since he prescribed it that you've been anywhere approaching yourself."

"It would do that.  How long has sh-, have I been on it?"

"Near as long as Master has been coming in here.  But if I may say, Miss, that was a fine noise you raised this morning."

For lack of a nearby chair, she sank down on the floor, chewing on a handy thumbnail.  She couldn't wake up.  If this was Death, she felt cheated.

"What is my name?  
  


"Miss?"

"I might as well know my own name, if I'm to be stuck here."

The woman clucked and shook her head, looking down on her charge.

"I need to know everything that might be of use to me.  Believe my memory wiped clean, believe my mind in need of a start; believe whatever you want to believe."

"I will dress you and take you to Madam, she is a more proper one than I to counsel you…"

She took a fistful of the woman's skirt and pulled until the woman sank to her own level.

"No.  It must be you. You who took the Laudanum away and gave me a door this world, it is you who must tell me who and what I am."

"Mary.  Brigid.  Michaels."

* * *

  


Author's Notes

"Laudanum: circa 1603.1: any of various formerly used preparations of opium 2: a tincture of opium"

Courtesy of m-w.com.

Laudanum was commonly used in previous centuries by the rising medical profession to treat their female clientele.  Anything from a fever to depression to menstrual irregularity to sexual aggression could be grounds for dosing with Laudanum, and many became addicted.

Thanks for reading so far – more to come!


	3. Seeking

She sat a long while, staring down the image stalking the green glass.  The late morning sun flooded the floor around her and glared against the beveled mirrors of the dressing table, dark with age.  She herself resisted the light, draped in unpolished gray lawn, sitting stiffly against the slight padding of the low vanity chair.  Somewhere in the room the other woman was rustling and snapping bedclothes into order, humming softly.  Below, in the street, the songs of the town rose in wisps, tickling her ears with unsatisfying fragments.

Her hair is the color she remembers, jet black, but of nature instead of dyes, and curls where it falls at the middle of her back.  That much she's dreamed about before.  What is more disconcerting is the eyes, and finding a deep blue, dark and inky, where she was used to finding a sort of yellow-green, like the prairie in winter.   More uncomfortable than any of the other details, though, her vision is clear.  All of her life leading up to this moment, she had fought with myopia, dreaming and waking.  What to think of it?

A clatter of china approached in the corridor, and she turned from the mirrors.  Strange and real though it all seems, dream it must be, she decided.  She would learn from it what she could.

*

"Felicity, I think I would like to go into town this morning," she announced suddenly, taking up her coffee carefully, and testing its strength.

"Why of course, Miss.  I hear the milliner has got some fine ribbons this week."  Felicity shifted in her chair, uncomfortable sitting in the presence of her mistress.

"Perhaps we will visit.  Really though, I was hoping I could beg both your company and your assistance for the day.  Do you want any coffee, Felicity?"

"Oh no Miss, I don't take coffee.  You sure you wouldn't want to be going with your mum then?  I am sure you'd have a better time of it accompanied by a lady, not little me."

"Tea then?  Really, it's amazing, this tray, the cook must have sent one of everything.  I'd like to meet with her before we go out today, but no, I'd rather your company, if you don't mind.  I have more questions for you anyway."  She poured tea carefully, barely resting her fingers on the lid, finding a balance between dumping the thing and burning herself on the heated porcelain.

"As you wish, Miss.  What are you wanting to know, if I may be so bold?"  Felicity held the china delicately, observing her young mistress through the steam.

"Oh, everything really.  I don't really remember anything, so pretend maybe I am new here, and tell me everything that comes to mind.  I was thinking a visit to town would prompt questions and answers both, and teach me the way around at the same time."  She was learning very quickly to be gentle with things, having bent the pewter fork twice, and tipped her coffee enough to spill nearly every time she reached for it.  It was awkward, this not having handles.  Might be reason enough to swear off hot drinks forever.

"Why sure, Miss.  It is so encouraging, your enthusiasm today – I can't wait to tell Mary about it all.  Who would have known the Laudanum would have done such things?"

"Indeed."  She contemplated the eggs on her plate, and reached for a few slices of bread.  "Perhaps we should call on her, on our way out.  Do you think she'd mind at all?"

"Oh no, Miss.  She'd be glad to see you, I'm sure.  Ann wouldn't be awake yet, so she'll be having nothing to be doing this early – likely she'll be down in the kitchen helping cook out."  She eyed the plate of local fruit.

"Sounds fun."  She sliced cheese from the wedge and piled it on the mound of bread and egg, licking her fingers indecorously as she assembled the thing.  "Have anything you want – even I can't eat all this.  Everything's fabulous.  We must stop by the kitchen on our way out and pay our respects."

Felicity traded her celadon teacup for a mango.  "Any shops in particular you'd like to visit, Miss?"

She took a thoughtful bite of her sandwich, leaning over the plate so the runny yolk wouldn't soil the front of her dress.  "The blacksmith."

*

The streets of Port Royal were beginning to fill, tradesmen and messengers weaving among carts and sailors.  The two women ducked under the swinging sign, and through the flung open door of Kings tavern.  It was clean, and far enough from the wharf to boast milky glazing in some of its windows, most already propped open, despite the early hour.  A few officers and merchants were dining in the main hall, for the most part speaking quietly and having the look of bachelors about them.  The women spoke with the keeper briefly, and he showed them cheerfully to a room partly partitioned off from the main hall.  Lunch was ordered and hats untied, conversation flowing more easily as they stretched into the chairs and shook their skirts free of wrinkles and the dust of the streets, encouraging new, cooler air between legs and petticoats.

Felicity moved uncertainly in the blue lawn, cut fashionably low and trimmed in wide stripes of polished charcoal cloth.  The lines of the dress were clean and unfussy, imitating high style with less ornamentation.  Overall, the outfit was striking, and, she thought, far above her station.  Mistress' orders or not, if Master Michaels caught her in his daughter's dress she'd be whipped for certain.

That is not to say she wasn't enjoying herself, though she preferred some kind of pattern in her own frocks.  The shopping had gone well all morning – looking into everything and buying next to nothing, except at the haberdasher, where her mistress had insisted on a black felted hat, and the milliner's, where they'd found finer feathers than the haberdasher had to offer.

Felicity cooled her tongue on the watered wine the serving maid brought.  All morning, the questions were incessant.  Her mistress was like a child, wanting to know everything about every person they saw in the street, every building they passed, even about ships in the harbor – how Felicity was supposed to know anything about them, she hadn't the first idea.  She was relieved she'd persuaded her mistress into a bit of lunch before making the trip out to the blacksmith – it was six streets over, and this was the first rest they'd taken.  Felicity kicked her shoes off beneath her skirts, rubbing stocking-shod feet on the wide legs of her chair.

The maid set the last tray on the table and retreated.  Felicity buttered a slice of brown bread, watching her mistress chase a devilled egg with a wrought iron fork.  She was eccentric, now she'd surfaced from whatever fog had taken her these last few years, and headstrong as she had been in childhood.  Early in the morning, she'd found herself talked into addressing her by her Christian name, and then her middle name, and lately had decided she didn't like any of her names, and was in the process of coming up with a better one.  Felicity, having always had her name and it never occurring to her to have anything else, settled further into believing her mistress highly peculiar.  But, she decided, watching her mistress give up on forks and assemble a sandwich as she had in the morning, peculiar was definitely preferable to the morbid vegetable she'd been a fortnight ago.

*

The scent of the foundry carried through the street, biting through the sea air that lay heavy over the town.  The sun was high, tipped slightly to the west in the advancing afternoon, the hour carrying with it all the attendant heat Caribbean afternoons were known for.  The two women trod carefully, their hiked hemlines revealing shapely feet in brocade heels, deftly avoiding mud and horse droppings.

A servant in the governor's livery appeared from a low doorway, and sneered at the pair.  The taller one watched him more closely, squinting with concentration.  The servant adjusted his waistcoat and strode past, chin lifted higher than his station should have allowed, knocking into a passing native without apology.  The door, or more properly, a wicket set into the door proper, which was wide enough to admit a heavy cart without trouble, was cracked with age and shrunken away from its frame, though it swung open easily and silently on fine barrel hinges.

The women stepped within, the shorter one pulling close the wicket as they adjusted to the low light.  The smell of hay and iron, charcoal and spirits stood heavy and thick within, and the light filtering through the shuttered windows in the unfinished loft caught motes of dust and smoke as it tilted into the shop.  Rectangles of yellow light marched an unsteady path forward, illuminating twenty paces distant the figure of a youth, bent over a square of shockingly bright stationary.

William Turner, apprentice.


	4. Finding

She stood at the window, rolling the honeyed wine in her mouth.  The setting sun painted the whole island in striking washes of orange and violet, interspersed with the occasional yellow flare of a lantern set out against the coming twilight.  Beautiful though it was, even in a dream, she could not stay.  If she followed her hunch, and understood the dream to draw on the universe of the movie, she would have no way off the island until after Turner had finished and delivered the commission from that afternoon.

On returning from town, she met with the family she'd been set down in.  The mother was a waste, keeping to her chaise and fidgeting incessantly with some useless piece of needlework or other, surrounded by ridiculous trinkets and lace.  She appeared to have no sense or education, telling old and harmless gossip and repeating herself every so often without noticing it or her listener's reaction.  The mother sighed often that evening of Mary Brigid's brother in London, and younger sister, fallen to a fever the previous summer.  And the father, exactly as he had been in the morning, radiating hatred from behind the newspaper.  She heard through Felicity that he had managed to trouble both upstairs maids already, though it was a business day.  She was convinced the whole family was crazy.

She had no way of knowing how long this dream would last, but it was clear by now she could not count on pulling herself out of this one.  Therefore, she must lay plans as if she would be here some weeks, and get what adventure out of it she could.  The first thing to do would be to create her persona.  It wouldn't do to be merely her waking self, and the figure she'd been handed at the outset wasn't favorable either.  In the rising face of the full moon she found a name.  Morgan: fine but unremarkable, suitable for either sex and simple enough to remember.

Felicity announced her presence with humming and the soft tap of her low heels across the wide floors.  Morgan turned from the window, trying the name on for size.

"Felicity my dear, what do you think of Morgan Archer?"

Felicity lay her bundle on the trunk at the foot of the bed, gesturing for the two maids following to do the same.  "Can't say that I know him, Miss."

"Ah.  No, I meant for myself.  I rather like it."

"Well Miss, I don't know, but it does seem to have a fine ring to it."

"Not too fine, I hope?  Nothing too remarkable?"

One of the younger maids spoke: "If I may, Miss, I knew two by name of Morgan back home, and three since I come to Port Royal with my mum."

"Men or women?"

"One here is a woman, and one back home, though that one, she said it different, more like Morgane, as in stories."

"Good, good.  Thank you my dear.  And your names were…?"

"Jane, Miss, and this my sister, Emily."

"Oh, please call me Morgan, all of you, if you would. I need to get used to it in any case."

The maids giggled and began lighting candles against the advancing evening.  Morgan finished the remainder of the wine and started to dig through the pile of old clothing.  Getting off the island would mean stowing away on one of two possible pirate vessels.  To survive, she needed not only a name, but a whole persona.  She needed clothes, equipment, a history and a purpose, and she needed to step into her role as soon as possible – she would be meeting with Turner again before midnight.

*

Morgan counted herself lucky, striding through the narrow streets with Felicity at her side, that there had even been enough in the pile to outfit them both.  Tomorrow morning they could take time to alter and mend, replacing buttons and adjusting length as needed, but tonight, her trousers were tacked to her shirt and the whole ensemble cinched with a moth-eaten scarf.  The shoes were the bigger problem, distinctly uncomfortable and suited only for soft city life.  Felicity wore her own brown shoes with her man's dress, grumbling in low tones and tugging at her knit cap every ten paces.  Morgan had tried to talk her out of coming, but she was stubborn, insisting she needed an escort.  She hadn't been able to button her trousers all the way, and she held the too-large greatcoat around her like one ill, but she walked on.

Light from the forge poured into the street, and in the window sat the horseshoe, sign that all was well.  Morgan knocked twice at the wicket, scanning the street as casually as she could manage.  Down the alley a pair of drunks stumbled from the tavern, but they weren't traveling or even looking in her direction.  She turned when she heard the bar slide away, and bit back a grin when Turner didn't recognize them at first.  She produced from her waistcoat the orange she'd promised earlier as a sign of good faith, watching his face as he took it from her open palm.

*

Turner listened for the snores of his master in the cellar, and slid a crate of ingots just far enough to block the door, sealing the last opening on the ground floor of the shop.  He picked up a third stool, and joined the women at the rough table.  Felicity poured him a mug of tea and pulled off the cap that had itched from the moment she'd put it on.

"You're welcome to train with me, but I won't do it without your name.  And I won't start the sword either."

"Morgan Archer."  She held him in a level stare, reading the suspicion rising in umber eyes.

"I want to know why you wouldn't give me your name earlier.  I don't deal with liars.  What's your real name?"

"Look, Turner.  I came here and I was given a name.  It didn't fit, you understand?  I take this one instead, it suits me better.  You won't find out anything of my character by knowing it, that person isn't me."

Felicity spoke up, "I vouch for my mistress, that should be enough.  Her family is irrelevant."

"And what do I tell the authorities when they come looking for a runaway?"

"You tell them you dealt with Archer, which you are."

"I won't do business without knowing who I deal with."

"And your master, what does he say to his apprentice who thinks so much of himself?"  Felicity challenged, exchanging a look with her mistress before continuing.  "The name of Benjamin Michaels mean anything to you?"

"Of course, the tradesmaster, with the crazy -"

Morgan put her mug down firmly, letting the tea splash over the wooden side.  She lifted her chin a tiny margin and spun the lie.  "Anything crazy about me was his own doing, calling that quack with his leeches and laudanum.  My own sister died of him and they called it God's will.  But for my good servant I might have followed her.  Now I am well, they do not know me, and my father sends me to England.  He would marry me from my brother's house to some merchant, he has arranged it all by post already.  I will not go."

"What then?  Why do you come to me?"  He squinted at her and lowered his voice.  "I cannot sell you the blade that will kill your father."

"I don't plan to kill him.  I'm going to the Americas on one of his own ships.  Virginia or the Rogue's Island I hear tell of."

Turner dropped his eyes and took a long drink of the tea.  "What manner of blade do you require then, Miss Archer?"


	5. Measuring

Morgan pulled the piles of coins to ones side and started counting again.  She was still short the figure she needed to pay the cobbler and Turner both.  Everything that could fetch a price and wouldn't be noticed missing for a time had been sold, and she was still short the most maddeningly small amount.  She scraped the cobbler's fee into a small purse, and the rest she returned to hiding.  Morgan pulled the finer of her last two gowns from the wardrobe and held the silk to her face.  The dressmaker had refused this one, insisting it showed enough wear that the cost of bringing it up to date for another customer was not worth her time.  This one single dress was beyond anything she had ever known in her waking life.  The yards and yards held in extravagant folds by such tiny stitches awed her, every inch recording an unknown woman's skill.

Tapping at the outer door interrupted her reverie, and Felicity strode past her to answer it.  She shoved hard at the desk blocking the door, grazing the plaster of the wall as she bumped it along.  The father had made another attempt at Morgan on the second morning, and various pieces of furniture were tried as barricades until, finally, the desk was effective.  Morgan brought the dress with her as she took a seat at their now customary table in the center of the room  The breakfast tray the knock had announced was heavily laden as usual, bright with three oranges this morning.  She took one from the pile carefully, staring at it as intently as if it spoke.  Felicity poured both coffee and tea, taking a chair opposite her mistress.  She knew the thought even before it rose into her mistress' face, and she knew how it would be.  She read the tea leaves sinking to the bottom of her cup, holding the silence that held her mistress.

*

The morning was quiet with the misting rain, the hour and the weather conspiring to keep the township indoors.  Felicity threaded her way around the deepest puddles, leading her mistress where she knew the roads to be the highest.  The forge was far enough from the house that their cloaks were soaked through by the time they slipped through the low wicket.  Felicity pulled the latch-string through to the inside, and helped her mistress undo her patens.  The shop was empty and quiet except for the hiss of the rain outside, and the occasional pop from the forge.  Felicity hung behind as Morgan slipped toward the forge hearth, watching the sinuous flow the other woman was cultivating at the moment.  She was uneasy, and she fidgeted while she watched for Turner's appearance.  She turned when she heard a loud hiss and splatter, noticing the kettle had begun to boil over.  Morgan noticed as well, and drew herself taller. 

The sound from the fire drew Turner down from his loft apartment, stepping heavily on the stairs and stumbling once, from the sound of it.  He emerged into the shop still buttoning his trousers, shirt hanging open halfway down the front, waistcoat thrown open over it and hair still untidy from sleep.  He did not look up, rolling his cuffs to his elbow as he took up and heavy cloth and moved the kettle hook away from the heat.  He lifted the lid and fanned at the smoke, peering inside and turning in search of ladle and bowl.  Halfway to the shelf he started, noticing the shadowy figure not three paces from him.  Felicity moved forward, announcing her own presence with the motion and gaining a better vantage point.

"May I help you?" Turner squinted at the nearer caped figure until a hand appeared from the folds, holding a ripe orange.  His eyebrows climbed high.  "Why have you come so early?"

Felicity watched Morgan extend her arm, reading the confusion in Turner's open face even as he came to his senses and accepted the fruit.  He turned enough to take his bowl off the near shelf, keeping his eye on the women as he moved.

"Is something wrong?"

"The bargain - "  Her voice was soft, curving around the words in an unusual gentleness.

He frowned in continued confusion, disoriented.  "I will have the sword ready in a few days, as I promised.  What – what is wrong with the bargain?"  Another orange appeared in her hand, this one held only a hand-span from her body.  "What do you mean by this?"

The silence strung out between them, each reading the other for the next move.  "I cannot raise the sum you named.  I wish to negotiate a trade for the remainder."

Felicity closed the distance between herself and the figure of her mistress, anticipating.  She watched emotion move through Turner's eyes, and noticed the slow way he settled the first orange into his bowl and took the step necessary to reach the second one.

"Your offer - ?"

Felicity was ready, and caught the cloak when it was unclasped, retreating a step to smooth it over her arm.  Released from the wool, the silk of the gown caught even the low light of the fire, shimmering rose and gold.  Turner looked lost, and Felicity fidgeted, uneasy again, recalling the charm her mistress had prepared before they set out.  There was trembling at the edge of her form, a shifting to her that didn't seem normal, even for the unusual lighting.

Morgan produced the third orange, the smallest, and held it against her body.  She held Turner's eyes and sunk her nails into the skin.  Juice welled up around her fingers and she pulled the orange open, the flesh tearing with a succulent wetness, the cells of the ripe fruit oozing around her hand.  As she watched, his tongue flicked over his lips and she extended the dripping mass toward him slowly, never moving her eyes off his face.  He stood dumbly, and then with a flush, awareness flooded his wide brown eyes.

"I cannot – you are not – I must – she - "  he licked his lips again, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

She watched for the flicker of uncertainty.  "I.  Will.  Be.  Her."

The bowl tilted and the orange fell, and his voice came out no louder than the sound it made in the hay.  "Elisabeth - "

*

She woke suddenly, popping from one state to the next without any cushioning transition.  The space between the shutter and the windowsill showed pale and gray, and she pressed her cheek against the flat pillow.  Sleep would not return though, and she knew it.  The even breathing behind her said he slept still, and she whispered a chant that he remain so as she reached into the pile on the floor.  She slithered into her clothes as quietly as she could, and swung the shutters open.  He turned over in his sleep, and she listened, waiting while he slipped back into dreams.  The predawn was chilly, and she closed the shutters behind her quickly, sitting on the roof to tie her boots on and adjust herself more convincingly into her persona.

Archer kicked a pebble through the streets, ambling in the general direction of the harbor.  Hands sunk in pockets, she calculated days and sums, looking forward to handling the blade made Turner made for her.  The grip was going on this afternoon, and she would get to test the design tonight.  Turner had forbidden her to see his work until it was finished, and she thought as the sun rose over the water that she was actually nervous about it.  She had no way of knowing whether he had seen the same sword she had tried to describe.

The wind caught at her feather, and she pushed it out of the way, settling the brim of the felt hat lower as she ran her eyes over the wharf below.  Fisherman were sitting at the mouth of the harbor, drawing in lines left the night before.  Archer stood into the wind coming in from the sea, tasting the salt on her tongue.  She recalled herself, and slouched against a nearby palm, chewing on the inside of her cheek. 

Archer was thinking for the tenth time that morning she wasn't ready to start the day yet when she saw the single sail tipping toward the docks.  A shadow glanced through the canvas and appeared on the yard.  Her jaw dropped and she started forward, recalling too late the steepness of the hill.  She slid twenty paces before she could dig her heels and fingers into the soil enough, cursing at her own stupidity.  When she looked up again the boat was still there, lower in the water and closer to the shore.  She got clumsily to her feet and exchanged slurred greetings with a sailor passing below.  Archer eased the rest of the distance down the slope, and sought protection from the nearest stack of crates.  The boat kept sinking all the way to the dock, and the shadow rolled onto the boards easily.  The sun was glaring across the water and he was twenty paces from her before she could make out his features.

Archer stood a long time after he passed, coming to herself when a porter bumped into her.   She growled curses back and forth with him, striding away from the crates in the direction she had seen Jack Sparrow wander.


	6. Compressing

The darkness left plenty of room to think. Archer checked her many lacings for the hundredth time and wrapped her greatcoat tighter against the damp chill. The sound of the rats carried through the hold, and she tried not to think about the other vermin against which she'd scattered pungent herbs. Archer was alone, quiet in the fog that seeped through the timbers.

The day leading to her crouching in the hold started to slip down around her, and she shook her head to clear the temptation of sleep. The irony of having to stay awake in a dream struck her, and she stifled the laughter that threatened to well up. Shouts rang through the night and she tensed, but it was only the guards on the dock gambling.

Once the fog had begun to roll in, it had easy to slip past the two of them unnoticed. The cutter was largely empty now, and Archer had explored below decks a while before deciding on a hiding place. She didn't know enough to know what would be the safest place come morning, when the fleet would give chase to the ghost ship due for an attack within a few hours. For that matter, she had no way of knowing the pirates wouldn't be exploring the _Interceptor_ when they attacked.

A high whistle whispered past her ears, followed by another, louder one. Archer pressed her face to the wall, and saw the tell-tale flashes across the harbor announcing the approach of the Black Pearl.

The sound of the guns rattled the timbers, and the mingled shouts and screams from the shore battle carried too well. Archer thought it was taking too long, and was already sore from tension. The cutter bobbed in the waves, but she hadn't seen any company yet, for which she was thankful. If she pressed against the crack she'd found earlier she could still see the longboats on the beach sitting empty. She could still see flashes from the _Pearl_, and from what she could see of it, they were doing more damage than the Royal Navy was. She pulled the dagger from her side, and sunk into a shadowy corner. She was glad to have it, though she hadn't expected to come by it even that morning. Biting her lip to keep herself alert, she reviewed the day, looking for details she might need in the morning, if she was still around to face it.

Sparrow had been fairly direct about things, weaving around the wharf minimally before settling on a dock to explore. As soon as the red-coated guards jumped to intercept him, Archer had turned heel as casually as possible, and headed back into the town. She had thought Turner might be on the road to the governor's already, so she went to the red-light district first. The streets were relatively quiet that early, and she had found the shop she wanted after only two inquiries. Archer had braved the broken staircase and bargained with the matron she found behind the peeling green door. The woman hadn't taken Archer seriously at first, but she had pushed through anyway. It had taken several low oaths and the flash of a small coin to get the door closed, but when she left an hour later her purse was full and there was no turning back.

Archer had argued with Felicity the rest of the morning, trying to bring her around. She had brightened at the sight of the coins, though she mourned the sold hair that brought them. She had expressed good wishes for the forthcoming flight to the northern colonies, and Archer had to break the truth to her. Liberal though she had been to that moment, Felicity could not entertain the thought of joining pirates. She even threatened to report everything to the Master. The rest of the morning Archer spent alternately consoling and cajoling her, trying to convince her to come with her anyway. When lunch was brought upstairs and Felicity still hadn't consented, Archer gave up, and told her everything she remembered about the forthcoming attack, urging her to stay blockaded with the rest of the staff in a cellar from the moment the fog rolled in, no matter what.

Ultimately, Archer had to go to the forge alone, and without any assurance that Felicity would remain safe. Her timing had been good, and Brown had already gone to a tavern for the remainder of the afternoon. Turner had been working on a new piece, and she had to wait until it was safely cooling before they could speak. He had not mentioned the confrontation with Sparrow, but from his look she thought it must have gone exactly as she imagined.

He presented the sword, and it was exquisite. He took a few moments to let her try it out, and she found the added length compensated for her lack of reach against another cutlass, where the breadth and basket-hilt lent strength to confrontation with a rapier. After several turns around the shop, Turner had stopped the practice and poured tea for them both. He surprised her then, and brought out a matched dagger and fully appointed baldric. Archer had protested the inability to pay, but Turner insisted it part of the bargain. He forced them on her, and wished her a good voyage. His work was magnificent, and matched perfectly the vision she had described to him. She left him soon after that, heading directly to the wharf to wait for the opportune moment to stow aboard the waiting _Interceptor_.

Archer was already exhausted and cramped when dawn began to filter into the hold. Despite the gloom and damp of her hiding-hole, the light burned her eyes, and she scuttled deeper into shadow. She'd been listening to the noise of navy-men swarming the deck of the _Interceptor_ and the ships near her since false-dawn, but so far had heard none in her level of the hold. Nonetheless, the moment she'd heard them on the dock she'd cast the spell she'd been holding through the night. Being a new spell, she didn't know how long it would last, or how much it would drain her to cast a glamour to mask her presence and sound. As morning wore on, and supplies filled the other holds, it began to seem an unnecessary precaution. From snatches of orders that filtered through the planks, it seemed the _Interceptor_ would be running light, and followed by the slower _Dauntless_ and a few supply ships. Judging by the mood of the men above, the Commodore seemed confident of a swift victory. Anything that gave her an edge on escaping the town was more than welcome.

Archer jerked awake when the ship began to move, pitching hard when the last mooring was slipped. Shouts were rising above her, and the thunder of the sailors getting underway shook the timbers. The cracks and squeals of the cutter nearly overset her edgy nerves, and she cursed and rubbed her eyes, trying to ward off the threat of sleep. If she judged right this was going to be the turning point of the adventure. Assuming her dream was following the thread of the movie. Assuming she hadn't overset it by contact with Turner. Assuming she remained undiscovered still.

Shouts rose up and the cutter rolled a little in the waves cut by the larger ship she was pulling aside. The high noise of ropes and grappling hooks finding targets sung through the air. Archer felt the lurch and dive as the _Interceptor_ was jerked to the pace of the _Dauntless_, and tried to rub some of her bleariness away. Once the _Interceptor_ turned pirate vessel she was going to need her strength. The movie hadn't spent much time on the voyage, probably because it was uneventful. This was her hope, and she listened to the crew scrambling to the larger ship, bracing herself against the dance of queasy pitch and roll the ship was performing. Knowing little of ships, Archer guessed the moorings and the sails were competing for control of the ship, and the result was nauseating. Archer shut her eyes and tried to brace herself against the slick, wide timbers. She could not let this make her sick – she had to make it to Tortuga undiscovered.

The ship lurched and jumped, throwing her balance off and she slid into a stray crate. She cursed and righted herself, resuming as tight a crouch as she could manage as the ship crashed over waves and headed out of the harbor. Hard though she tried to be the steady jostling was hypnotic, and she fell into trance. The _Interceptor_ hit a deep trough at the mouth of the harbor and she fell over and into sleep.

------

Finals are over and yes I am back from the ends of the earth. So, now I can write again. Here's hoping I'll have a few more chapters in the near future too.

Anyway - Back to writing!


	7. Turning

Archer almost killed him that morning.  Not so much willfully, and much of the fault lay with Turner in any case.  As it happened, she had passed out tucked in a far corner of the hold, and it was the depth of the shadow there that brought him over.  A touch to the shoulder and Archer had sprung into attack without completely waking.  The battle remained low, with much grappling as Archer pressed the dagger into service.  Tables turned with an unexpected pitch of the ship, and Turner got enough distance to actually see the blade still sneaking toward his flesh.  Archer regained the advantage in his moment of hesitation, and soon had him under the fine edge, catching breath and reorienting in the wane of the struggle and its attendant adrenal rush.  Turner's eyes narrowed and he hissed at his assailant.

"If anything, I know my own work!  What manner of rogue are you, and what have you done with the lady?"

"Shut ye mout lad else the marnin' be stained as t' evening!"

Shoving away the grogginess of the rude awakening, Archer realized who she had under blade, and bit her lip in uncertainty, even as she threatened him.  She wondered what would happen if she disturbed the known plot that much by killing off one of the main characters.  She might have a portal to wake up, but then again she might be pulled deeper.  The Captain's voice filtered down through the deck, blurred through the distance.

"Answ'r 'im ye fool!  Oaf that ye are, ye fell or some'at."

"I will not!"

"Lower ye voice then -  d'ye jest be wanting t' die dis marnin' then?  I can arrange it far ye if ye be havin' it that way, but I haven't really the leisure now, do I lad, what wit de Cap'n an' all, so I don't tink I be force'n me hand now, were I you."

The captain's voice rang out again, closer and a little more urgent.

"Turner me boy, on decks with you!"

"Answ'r 'im by gods!"

Archer committed a little more pressure to the blade, tipping the balance just enough for Turner to get leverage.  Archer was unprepared, and was thrown toward the hatch where the light was a little stronger.  Turner had time to draw his blade in the approach, and Archer scrambled to stand and draw the sword, retreating up the shallow stair and cringing at both the disadvantage and the loss of the hat somewhere in the hold below.  Parrying and retreating, trying to get a sense of the new ground, Archer had no time to reinforce the glamour she wore, and Turner got a good look at her when she passed through a grid of light cast through the grate of the central hatch.  Recognition flashed through his face, and in a sudden burst he slipped through her defenses and had his own blade at her throat.

"You're a pirate!"

"Ye be much o' one t' talk, ain't ye then boyo?"

"You lied!"

"I t'ought I were a pirate."

Booted feet came closer, and a new sifting of dust through the hatch provoked Archer to low curses, and a quickly defeated attempt to free herself.  Sparrow stood directly above, hunched to see the two of them caught in the light below the grate.

"What's this Turner?  Have we rats aboard?"

Archer refused to look up, and scowled at Turner.

"A runaway.  An apprentice."

"On a ship of the Royal Navy – not too wise is he now? Bring him up lad."

Archer cursed, and cocked her head to one side, holding Turner's look.  He motioned with his blade, giving her just the opening she asked for.

"Aye! Get on then – you heard the Captain."

Archer whirled forward, swinging deliberately wild, crafting a swift and clumsy engagement and giving Turner explicit opportunity to disarm her.  The attempt would gel her character a little more.  She hadn't been expecting to have to pass Sparrow's judgment. As Turner prodded her through the hold and toward the decks, she pulled as much of the glamour together as she could before she had to stand in the full and revealing sunlight.

Sparrow leaned against the starboard jollyboat pulling on a tail of his beard and scowled at the two of them as they emerged.  Archer pulled the best impression of a sullen, irate and rebellious youth she could muster, and kept her lips pressed tight together.

"I don't exactly take to stowaways on my ship, boy.  What are you about?"

Archer narrowed her eyes, drew out the silence, and spat.

"You sail under my command, lad, you'd best answer."

Turner shifted his feet, and offered Sparrow Archer's blades.  He leaned forward enough to take the sword, and inspected the steel.

"'Tis a fine piece, lad.  Perhaps too fine for your station, eh mate?  Never you mind that here boy, but draw on a mate under sail again, articles or not, and I'll have you overboard, land or no, savvy?"

Archer scowled and inclined her head in answer.  Sparrow shot the blade home in it's scabbard and inspected the dagger.  He eyed Archer over the blackened steel, and after a moment's pause, shot it home and handed the whole mess back to Turner.

"Well.  Now that you're here mate, we might as well make use of you.  We're a few hours out of Tortuga now, so you might want to drop your things in the focsle before you head aloft then."

Turner started to hand the baldric and blades back to Archer, but paused, looking in askance to Sparrow, who shoved himself upright and swaggered into Archer's space, forcing eye contact.

"Aloft?"

"Aye.  Can't be pulling into Tortuga flying the colors of His Majesty's Navy, now can I?   But I'm the only one here who can take her into the harbor, and I need you running the lines so it would be terribly inconvenient for me if you're going to be falling from the shrouds.  But now, right here – you.  Get you the pennant down first and bring it to the helm, eh?"

"And if he can't?"

Sparrow laughed and tipped closer yet.  Archer's lips pressed tighter, and held ground.

"Being uninvited, he's expendable, savvy?"

Archer flexed hands cramped from the ratlines and scanned the harbor.  There was a cluster of sloops closer in to the wharf, and many smaller boats pulled up on the beach and tied against the rising tide.  A tongue of land wrapped around the cove, blocking view from the wide canal dividing Isla Torutue from French-held Hispaniola and rising from nests of coral barely navigable by those familiar with the waters.  The little island was more mountain than anything, a smoky thalo and viridian in the sinking light.

Turner thumped the last seachest into the jollyboat and joined Archer at the ropes.  Sparrow was checking the lines still, and they had a moment before he would be within range.

"Apprentice, am I lad?  Think ye t' tell 'im in what?"

"I didn't need to.  You fairly wear your thievery and whoreishness."

"Don't be daft boyo.  Much as ye, I be doon' but what I hae' to."

"You lie.  Every word that falls from your lips is poison, Morgan."

"If t'were poison I'd soon be known of 't now wouldn't I boyo?  Let be, eh?  Plans change – we make wit' what we be gi'en, eh Will?"

He scowled, but grew quiet, and Sparrow rolled through the last set of lines and joined them.  The boat was hauled over the rail, and the held for each other in turn.  Turner and Archer rowed toward the lights of the town while Sparrow rifled through the swag, redistributing the stuff in the chests.  There hadn't been much aboard, just minimum shot and provisions, so the only booty on the little warship was what the sailors and officers had brought for themselves.  The going was slow with the boat loaded so heavy, and Sparrow had the four shares portioned before the dock could be seen through the enclosing darkness.

"I didn't expect to be having a cabin boy, but you did your share of work once Turner here pulled you about.  So a half a share to you boy, and be off with you once the boat be tied, savvy?"

"Aye."

"You have a name, boy?  Now that the cat loosed your tongue?"

"Morgan Archer."

"Ah.  Interesting.  Well.  Beware sneaking aboard ships in this harbor, mate.  Most crews around here do much worse by their captives, and worse yet by those who are even less invited, savvy?"

He sprawled over the plank seat then, fussing with his appearance the rest of the way to the dock, tweaking this sash and that rag to whatever semblance of fine he could manage.  Archer concentrated on rowing through the burning muscles, matching Turner stroke for stroke.  Every effortless motion on Turner's part goaded Archer on, even once they reached the dock and they were unloading the chests onto the low planks Archer's world was so narrowed she did not see the woman until she nearly ran into her.

"Aye then, I been waitin' long time fo' ye child."

The woman was broad and soft, and resisted even the low light.  Archer pretended not to have heard, and jumped to regain the pace Turner had set, reaching into the skiff for the last few canvas bags.

"Aye, I know ye be hearin' me, child.  I be waiting fo' ye 'en ye drop ye swag 'ere.  I not be far now I seen ye.  But don't ye be thinkin' I be spinning tales – we of a kind, child.  I know ye better than ye gi'en to account on yeself.  Think ye be warn, and ye'll not be so started t' next I hae' chance t' speak t' ye."

Archer chanced a look at Turner to see if he'd heard the woman, but he showed no change of expression.  Sparrow was likewise preoccupied, arranging with a gaggle of dock-boys to carry the extra loot into the town proper.  Archer shoved the unsettled feeling into the tiniest corner of her mind, and assumed the woman was speaking to someone else, someone whose presence she hadn't had time to note yet.  Or one of the dock-boys.  Yes.  The woman was talking to one of them, and there was no reason for her to take note of it.

---

Whew. Another semester down, another three to go.

Many apologies for the length between postings lately.  School, you know?  But all has not been in vain – I have been spending some quality time holed up in the library with some old maps and reference books.  So now, I can actually write about the pretty boat.  Sorry, ship. lol  I also have been working on diagrams, which I'll post elsewhere and link to in case anyone wants them, once I start using them.

For clarity, yes, some of the plot overlaps that of the movie… chapter 6 should be regarded as beginning at the same time as the flashback-dream the movie begins with.  (Elisabeth, being highborn, sleeps much later than our heroes, and is dreaming while action is afoot.)

…I hope I haven't lost my tiny readership with my absence… many apologies! More is on the way!


End file.
